Thursday, March 31, 2011

Tomorrow we celebrate César Chávez Day--an official holiday in ten states. To help spread the word about Cesar's rich legacy, starting today, the UFW is kicking off an innovative new campaign through a "Donate your Status to César" Facebook App. We will be launching this campaign from our Facebook page or you can go directly to the App.

Throughout his life, César inspired millions of people – in the fields and in the cities--to commit themselves to the fight for social, economic, and civil rights. When he was once asked by a union member how he wanted to be remembered, Chávez replied:

“If you want to remember me, organize!”

César knew as you and I do--there is still much to be done. The struggle for a contract with Giumarra (suppliers of most of the table grapes in America), injustice in the wrongful death of farm worker Maria Isavel Vasquez Jimenez, and the continuing legislative attacks on immigrants, unions and the poor remind us of the challenges we face this very moment.

So today on César's March 31 birthday, we’re remembering César the way he wished us to – organizing everyone we know.

Please help us get thousands of people to honor César E. Chávez via organizing through social media by going here. We can make this go viral, but we need every person to do this right now. Through a few simple clicks and an optional comment you can help us tell millions that César's message of social justice still lives on today.

Wednesday, March 30, 2011

Once they had a country, a culture, a future. Today, upheaval and betrayal have turned their world upside down. And for one family-a U.S. war hero, his deeply religious wife, and their impressionable fourteen-year-old son-a new struggle has just begun.

Mano Suarez made a choice to fight against injustice, and his wife can only pray for his deliverance. Now their son, Pedro, takes up his father's cause . . . disappearing into the ranks of a cult-like organization and leaving his family far behind. To rescue him, Mano must face the consequences of his past deeds. But how can he convince his son to give up the very ideals he, Mano, embraced? How can he prove that home and family are the most important ideals of all?

Death at Solstice: A Gloria Damasco Mystery by Lucha Corpi

Chicana detective Gloria Damasco has a "dark gift," an extrasensory prescience that underscores her investigations and compels her to solve numerous cases. This time, the recurring vision haunting her dreams contains two pairs of dark eyes watching her in the night, a phantom horse and rider, and the voice of a woman pleading for help. But most disquieting of all is Gloria's sensation of being trapped underwater, unable to free herself, unable to breathe.

When Gloria is asked to help the owners of the Oro Blanco winery in California's Shenandoah Valley, she finds herself on the road to the legendary Gold Country. And she can't help but wonder if the ever-more persistent visions might foreshadow this new case that involves the theft of a family heirloom, a pair of antique diamond and emerald earrings rumored to have belonged to Mexico's Empress Carlota.

Soon Gloria learns that there's more to the case than stolen jewelry. Mysterious accidents, threatening anonymous notes, the disappearance of a woman believed to be a saint, and a ghost horse thought to have belonged to notorious bandit Joaquín Murrieta are some of the pieces Gloria struggles to fit together. A woman's gruesome murder and the discovery of a group of young women from Mexico being held against their will in an abandoned house send Gloria on a fateful journey to a Witches' Sabbath to find the final pieces of the puzzle before someone else is killed.

Corpi weaves the rich cultural history of California's Gold Country with a suspensefulmystery in this latest installment in the Gloria Damasco Mystery series

Meet Me Under the Ceiba by Silvio Sirias

"I'm not afraid of that old man," Adela once told her niece. But everyone in the small town of La Curva, Nicaragua, knew that the wealthy land owner, Don Roque Ramírez, wanted Adela Rugama dead.And on Christmas Day, Adela disappeared. It was two months before her murdered body was found.

An American professor of Nicaraguan descent spending the summer in his parents' homeland learns of Adela's murder and vows to unravel the threads of the mystery. He begins the painstaking process of interviewing the townspeople, and it quickly becomes apparent that Adela-a hard-working campesina who never learned to read and write-and Don Roque had one thing in common: the beautiful Ixelia Cruz. The love of Adela's life, Ixelia was one of Don Roque's many possessions until Adela lured her away.

The interviews with Adela's family, neighbors, and former lovers shed light on the circumstances of her death and reveal the lively community left reeling by her brutal murder, including: her older sister Mariela and her four children, who spent Christmas morning with their beloved aunt, excitedly unwrapping the gifts she brought them that fateful day; her neighbor and friend, Lizbeth Hodgson, the beautiful mulata who rejected Adela's passionate advances early in their relationship; Padre Uriel, who did not welcome Adela to mass because she loved women (though he has no qualms about his lengthy affair with a married woman); her former lover Gloria, the town's midwife, who is forever destined to beg her charges to name their newborn daughters Adela.

Through stories and gossip that expose jealousies, scandals, and misfortunes, Sirias lovingly portrays the community of La Curva, Nicaragua, in all its evil and goodness. The winner of the Chicano / Latino Literary Prize, this spellbinding novel captures the essence of a world rarely seen in American literature.

America Libre by Raul Ramos y Sanchez

How will today's immigration crisis shape our nation? This provocative novel set in the second decade of the 21st century poses a chillingly credible nightmare vision . . . a Hispanic liberation movement seeking to redraw the borders of the United States.

After years of anti-immigrant backlash, anger seethes in the nation's teeming barrios. The crowded streets bristle with restless youth idled by a deep recession. When undercover detectives in San Antonio accidentally kill a young Latina bystander during a botched drug bust, riots erupt across the Southwest. As the inner-city violence escalates, Anglo vigilantes strike back with barrio shooting rampages.
Exploiting the turmoil, a congressional demagogue succeeds in passing legislation that transforms the nation's Hispanic enclaves into walled-off Quarantine Zones. Amid the chaos in his L.A. barrio, Manolo Suarez is out of work and struggling to support his growing family. Under the spell of a beautiful Latina radical, the former U.S. Army Ranger eventually finds himself questioning his loyalty to his wife-and his country.

Fast-paced and action-packed, America Libre is a wake-up call to the dangers of extremism - on both sides of this explosive issue.

A recent column in the Washington Post calls attention to the challenge of finding books for boys. Sarah Pekkanen writes, “when it comes to children’s and young adult novels, many publishers are scrambling to capture the attention of the elusive, picky boy readers”.

Since publishers compete with toys and movies for the boy buck, a quick look there may parallel what would work in a book for boy readers: G.I. Joe action figures and Battle of Los Angeles. Bang Bang shoot ‘em up heroic fantasies pull in the spending.

US publisher Hachette Books may be ahead of the curve in some ways, with its House Divided. Author Raul Ramos y Sanchez may have hit a good formula that could draw boys to reading this book: an action thriller replete with an ethnic angle; teenagers, boy meets girl, romeo & Juliet, the first time; savage war; good guys win in the end. For sure, the book has its share of hurdles to overcome--or overlook--all other things being equal. Sadly, some hurdles loom insurmountably. First, however, the novel’s the thing wherein to capture the imagination of the boy.

The ethnic angle pits “Hispanics” against the rest of the country, brown v. black&white together. Herded by the US military into urban cultural sinks, latinos lose the resultant war sapping the spirits of the Los Angeles insurgency. The central male character is a formerly loyal U.S. soldier who now leads the Hispanic freedom fighters. A schism between the Hispanic Republic of America and the Latino Liberation Front threatens to bring the final defeat of all chicana chicano latina latino resistance. The “vatos” of the LLF are a Texas-born organization with followers among pachucos on the eastside of LA. The HRA’s home base is LA.

The plot makes no effort to tie the novel’s neighborhood to anyplace specific. There’s an ambush on Whittier Boulevard, but otherwise this hellhole can be anywhere from Pacoima to Pomona. Geographic ambiguity keeps the plot in drive mode.

Boy meets girl might hold interest for some kids. Pedro, a teenage Latino gangster, accidentally kidnaps the 15-year old blonde svelte daughter of a top honcho for the CIA. Boy and Girl fall in lust. They are patient and gentle. He's a rebellious son. She’s more a cipher, just a pretty girl handcuffed to a pipe. But Ramos y Sanchez gives her the best line in the dystopia:

Barry, my parents taught me not to be prejudiced. Most people I know—most Americans—they’re not your enemy. They just think Hispanics have turned against this country, that they won’t do things our way and don’t want to learn English.

Pedro. Barry. It’s an Obama joke. Ni modo. Here’s where the war comes in: The CIA guy’s espionage against the Hispanics and their warrior leader, Mano Suarez, becomes a father’s desperate campaign to rescue his daughter. Pedro who's grown impatient with Hispanic caution in the war against the tea baggers, splits his father’s home and becomes a Latino gangbanger warrior. Doesn’t get jumped in or nothing but he rises to the top right away. “Pedro do what mero say. Pedro vato.” Angel, el mero, the cold-blooded local LLF warrior chief, doesn’t speak much English, sabes.

The CIA guy has a warrior buddy with burning desire to kill Suarez. Fuller and Mano clash twice. Their second confrontation has them bond in mutual admiration. They free the girl and affirm the good intentions of the Hispanic movement to the vengeful US President Nixon. (He’s a great sobrino or somesuch to the other Nixon so Julie and Tricia are off the hook.)

As the novel ends, Nixon is about to send three combat-hardened divisions into the barrios to punish everyone for being brown and noble. Decent fictive gente are about to be wiped out by a rampaging army because of the actions of a few assholes who already got theirs, and whom all decent gente repudiate. But the novel ends without a suggestion of a deux ex machina that will stop the invasion.

Hearing about, instead of seeing the action and suspense, looms as this novel’s major hurdle. Not that a boy would notice that stylistic absence, nor the heavy-handedness of the author’s point of view, and probably not the oft-plodding diction. Leave that discussion to a parent coaching a reluctant reader son or sobrino to open the book. Talk to the boy about fantasy, what-if questions; explore the kid’s attitude toward books all the other kids are reading—those Harry Potter books are behemoths and hard to miss.

The novel’s ominous portents make me wonder what “good guys win” actually looks like. That’s the tell-not-showness of the novel. What gives me pause in recommending the story to some boys I know is the absence of compelling ideas about racism, state sanctioned terrorism, elections, speaking Spanish or English. Instead, House Divided is about the capture and rescue of a pretty blonde teenager and the spiritual conversion of her worried father. The gente behind those walls? Suffer. Así es.

I am less tolerant of the novel’s right-of-mugwump moral stance. Opposing sides are broadly drawn to allow lots of ambiguity; anglo and black unitedstatesians on one side, brown / immigrant / Spanish-speaking / chicanesque gente on the other side. Ramos y Sanchez seems unaware of a popular sentiment—particularly in Califas--against acceptability of the word the author chooses for his good guys, “Hispanic.” Peor, he draws an ugly lexical line. The bad guys on the liberation side are “Latino”.

The top Latino turns out to be a backstabbing nihilist whose preference for chaos mirrors his army in the field. Back home, “el mero”, an undocumented Spanish-speaking thug, generals the local resistance fighters of the Latino Liberation Front. Think Pendleton and khakis carrying assault weapons—unthinking and ruthless. That’s Angel, a caricature of me-Tarzan you-Jane speeches, whose only redeeming quality is a sweet sister. Hispanics are noble and incredibly apt. This is the Suarez family. After Mano shoots Angel, they take in the newly-orphaned child.

For blood thirstiness, both sides commit atrocities. To its credit, there is no justifying the teabagger-run-wild United States. Top politicians and vocal haters are slime, punto final. Factotums with consciences save the day.

Initially, House Divided is about division: raza, defeat, heroism in desperate straits. Then the traitor pulls his kidnap movida. The dystopia peopled with gente fighting genocide, burning candles for light in bullet-riddled homes takes a back seat to a standard damsel-in-distress potboiler.

Heaping misery on distress, Ramos y Sanchez attempts to portray both sides equally responsible for their world’s misunderstandings and hatred. Yet, one barrio warrior’s resolve to kill “gabachos” grows from seeing his toddler crushed by a mechanized infantry vehicle in a callously evil hit-and-run. The author later slaps the chicano’s anger in the face, disclosing the driver did not see the child so did not know to stop; the baby’s death was an accident, not the evil intent the Latino makes of the killing. Should the guerrero stop killing GIs, or just enjoy it less?

Clearly writers can write any darn thing they want, the more outrageous and dystopic the better, for some publishers and tastes. But with imagination and publication come opportunity and responsibility, and in its current form, House Divided has yet to open the door nor find an effective métier. I will not recommend it to the boys I know, who love reading. If you look for it at a booksellers, you’ll recognize it; the one with the children walking single file in tall grass, waving a white flag.

CONFERENCE ON WOMEN AND WAR:

Hidden Strengths – Hidden Wounds

La Bloga supports efforts like The Soldiers Project. Stated on the organization's website, We are a group of licensed mental health professionals who offer free psychological treatment to military service members (active duty, National Guard, Reserves and veterans) who have served or who expect to serve in the conflicts in Iraq or Afghanistan.

The conference costs up to $100; $30 for the opening reception and film. Details at the group's home page.

March roared in like a lion and kept roaring through California's stormiest winter and Japan's double tragedies, and comes winding down with Libyans killing each other with help from this nation's current version of shock and awe.

The endless March, it seemed. Finally here comes the chronological finis to March’s travails. Over the long haul, we’re in for it.

Arizona appears to have infected quite a number of elected tipas tipos, too. April’s showers and May flowers, hurry up. There’s an election in 2012.

In the meantime, poetry.

Francisco Alarcón and the moderators of Poets Responding the SB 1070, a Facebook group, offer this week’s collection of five:

We might talk with an accent,A thick Spanish accentYou think we don’t understandBecause of the difficulty pronouncing words

But the truth is, we understand rudeness and crueltyBecause like you with your practiced speechAnd material objectsWE are human

Does humanity leave you, because of the hardship,Of speaking another language?No sir,It leaves you, when you feel better than another,Because of the smallest reasons

So we who speak another languageCame from a different heritage,And are labeled “illegal:Because we look “illegal”Is inhumane

WE ARE HUMAN!!!!WE ARE LEGAL!!!!!AND WE WILL ALWAYS BE THAT

No matter how many laws you passHow many killings and threats, we will still consider ourselves human.You say there is prejudice, but I consider whites like my brothers,We are all children of the same earth, same species and same universal energyBecause just like you, who sailed the sea seeking for a better life,We cross the desert for the same reason.

at night the light blows outwhat route have we embarked uponthe dawn stalked the voicelessmade them lesswould we regressto repeat the beat of the war drumthe hymn of peacedoes not ceasethus does increaseto form releasegrowingsowingreapingknowingthat life should not be taken in vainthe stain explodesthe gun reloadsthe mind numb soldier killsbehind the clouds of libertyi'll make you freefills the heavens with rainwills the cycle of slayinga tear the fearmama hold me nearbeholdhistory unfoldsthe sightthe flightof people soldfor monetary gainslain without mercyby democracywe will save your soilbut not your soulsyour blood spilled for oilthe veil recoilsthe hypocrisyof this U.S.A.you sayyou will protect merepresent this seaof massesof different classes, colors, & creedsinstead i rejectthat which you claim to bemassacring fellow beingsin my nameits this government i blameit's you i shameopen your eyeswe are the sameunder the rising suna day will comeamerica will weepthose numbed in sleepwill awake and pleafor mother earth to forgive theeand then love will become oneall that i amall that we areall that we wereall that we will bea lightat night

On March 24, 1980, our beloved priest Monsignor Oscar Arnulfo Romero, was cowardly assassinated. On the 31st anniversary of his death, I celebrate his life with this poem.

“In the name of these peopleWho suffer so much, I ask youI beg youStop the violenceStop the repression!”

Those who tried to silence youWere screwedFrom your cathedral in the heartOf San SalvadorYour homily cannot be silenced

In the Salvadoran sunriseA deep scent of rosemaryRosemary for the poorRosemary of hope and justice

Rosemary for those who continue to pay a deaf earTo the clamor of the people

Because of thatI beg you MonsignorYou who prays every SundayAnd every weekdayWe need your homily nowJust as we needed in the war years

I want you to please come and pray for this country of yours,As it continues to struggle

Come and pray for the majestic rivers and lakesNot very majestic anymore

Pray for the all the gang members

And pray dear MonsignorSo that mothers could find once and for allThe unknown graves of their son and daughters

Finally my dear Monsignor

I want you to come and prayFor our indigenous peopleFor our girls and boysFor our leadersFor our workersFor our youthCome and pray the way you know how to pray

I want all Salvadorans the world over to listen to your homily

Your words of wind, in the windYour words of water, in the waterYour words of light, in the lightYour words of justice, in justiceYour words of peace, in peaceYour words without hungerYour words of beans and tortillas for all

Come dear Monsignor and pray for usSo there will be no more distant brothersNo more distant mothersNo more distant mothersNo more distant grandsonsNo more distant grandfathers or grandmothersNo moreNo more

I want to pray with you your homilyI want all Salvadorans to pray with you

Monsignor Oscar Arnulfo RomeroThose who tried to silence you have failedFrom your cathedral in the heart of San SalvadorYour prayer for justice lives on

On March 24, 1980The trees of fire shined brighterAnd the crickets sang their rainsong

Monsignor RomeroI asked my mother why she loved you so muchAnd she simply answered,“Because he always tells the truth -Know what else “My old mama said,“He would say,Those who live by the swordDie by the swordAnd look how his assassins died”

Those who live by the swordDie by the swordThat’s what my mama said

Monsignor Oscar Arnulfo RomeroI don’t want to pronounceThe names of those who killed youInstead lets turn the volume on our radios all way upAnd let us listen to your homilyAnd let your words enter the heart of the Salvadoran peopleLike the deep smell of tortillas made from new corn

Luis Ascencio CortezI'm fourteen years old, and in middle school. I mainly wrote this poem to express that we are all together. Spiritually bonded, since the birth of the planets. That we have somewhat split, but i write so that someday in the future.We will once more be brother and sister, in this land of "opportunity."Luis Ascencio-Cortez

Joe NavarroJoe Navarro is a Literary Vato Loco, poet, creative writer, educator, community activist, husband, parent and grandparent who currently lives in Hollister, CA. You can visit his website at http://joenavarro.weebly.com

Iris De AndaI am a woman of Mexican & Salvadorian descent born, raised, and currently living in Los Angeles, California. I am a revolutionary, mother, wife, writer, activist, practitioner of the healing arts, and co-founder of the company Las Adelitas: Moda, Cultura, Revolucion. I believe in the power of spoken word, poetry, storytelling, and dreams. I have been writing for most of my life and this is my ceremony, my offering, and my creation for a better world. Peace!

Jorge ArguetaJorge Tetl Argueta is a native Salvadoran and Pipil Nahua Indian who spent much of his childhood in rural El Salvador. His bilingual children's books have received numerous awards. His poetry and short stories have appeared in acclaimed literary text books. Jorge Tetl's latest book for children's, Arroz con Leche/Un Poema Para Cocinar, Rice Pudding/A Cooking Poem, was selected one of 2010' s Best Children's Book by Kirkus Review. Jorge Tetl is currently the director of Talleres de Poesia, a literary organization that promotes children's literature in the United States and El Salvador.www.jorgeargueta.com

Monday, March 28, 2011

Saturday evening, I had a wonderful time reading and signing my new novel, The Book of Want, at Libros Schmibros, a lending library/used bookstore founded by book critic David Kipen for the community of Boyle Heights (2000 E. 1st St. Los Angeles, CA 90033). I want to thank not only David and the volunteers who set up the chairs and basically rearranged Libros Schmibros for the reading, but I also thank Colleen Jaurretche, the operations manager, as well as the former operations manager, Catherine Fryszczyn, who is moving to Ukraine to serve in the Peace Corps. I thank you not only for what you are doing for the community, but also for your hospitality as we had an intimate evening with guests who listened to my reading attentively, and asked insightful, thought-provoking questions. If you want to learn more about David Kipen and Libros Schmibros, please read this fine piece by Carolyn Kellogg for the Los Angeles Times.

As I’ve noted before, writing is a lonely endeavor, but when I get to participate in book readings, the loneliness dissipates and I am reminded why I write. That personal connection with readers fills me with energy and inspiration…I wouldn’t write another word if I couldn’t participate in such literary events.

Now I’m off to Northern California for a book reading and signing on March 30, at 7:00 p.m. (the day before César Chávez Day), at the venerable (and independent) Kepler's Books, 1010 El Camino Real, Menlo Park. This event is co-sponsored by the Stanford Chicano Latino Alumni Association of Northern California. The author, Stephen D. Gutierrez, will be introducing me. Kepler’s Books is just outside of Stanford University where I majored in English literature, so it’s a bit of a homecoming for me. If you can’t make it, visit my website for future events.

OTHER LITERARY NEWS:

• Over at LatinoLA, check out Jimmy Franco’s provocative essay, “Ruben Salazar: A Man of Courage” which is subtitled, “Not just a symbol of nostalgia, rather an example to everyone that we should stand up and continue to struggle.”

Sunday, March 27, 2011

It’s a big gray lump in the living room, a has-been that now attracts dust and random clutter—CDs, pens, cinnamon gum, a magnifying lens, a red dragon, notebooks, DVDs, coins, colorful glass figurines, a purse, a salt lamp, a silver bracelet. My very own eyesore. Gone are the days that I worshipped its light into the night. How midnight quickly became three in the morning. How my pulse raced with suspense. How I yelled, outraged. How I got hooked on predictable stories, sappy sentiments, and bimbos. How I attempted to multi-task, working and watching, eventually dropping the “working” part.

How I swore, every time I got the cable bill, This is the last time! No longer will I pay an insane amount of money to submit my subconscious to psychic and mental pollution! How I fantasized giving Charter the finger. How I would chop, chop, cut, cut.

I thought about it seriously for three years, replaying the chop-chop-cut-cut fantasy every month. I thought about all the money I’d save. All the time I’d have to write. All those hikes I was going to do. How I’d make up for all the lost time. How I would sleep a good eight hours each night. How I’d be cooking soups and baking cakes from scratch. How I’d hang out with friends. How I’d go out to poetry readings, live performances, art movies. How I’d read all those novels on my bookshelves. Maybe I’d take up water coloring or spin clay bowls with my hands. Go horseback riding. Who knows. Anything is possible, right?

A writer I know ditched TV. I wrote to her on Facebook and asked her the big question: Is there life after no-TV? Yes! She raved about the 600-page novel she edited and whittled down to 470 pages with no-TV. The article she wrote for publication. The talk she gave at a conference, the workshop she did at a library, on and on. All of this during one month of no-TV.

The TV was her surrogate soul mate. She had several sets on at the same time, so she wouldn’t miss anything as she went from room to room. She sped home to catch her shows. She fell asleep under its glow. And now that she was healed with no-TV, she was rediscovering her soul. Words were pouring out of her. She became attentive to bird song and sunshine. She joined humankind again and became a social butterfly. She even got a little TV in with friends, for special occasions—the Super Bowl, the Oscars, some great flick.

Clearly, her TV grip was even stronger than mine. If she could do it, I could do it. She recommended a 21-day TV fast, to start.

I thought about it for another year. In that time, my no-TV fantasy grew. I would write a novel! Learn how to play the harmonica! I would compost and become an urban farmer! I’d write songs and record a CD! I’d volunteer for hospice care, take in a few foster kids, become a shaman, help save Mother Earth!

Two months ago, I called Charter and did the chop-chop-cut-cut.

Television, my perverse meditation, how I miss you.

Forgive me the cliché, but life hasn’t been the same without you. None of my grandiose ideas have taken root in your absence. I’ve gone to one poetry reading in two months. Hung out twice with friends. I haven’t hiked, baked cakes, started a novel, learned how to paint or play anything, or read a book from my own collection.

I’ve eaten frozen pizzas, taken care of laundry on Thursdays, washed and rearranged all my rocks, kept my apartment free of dust bunnies by sweeping every day. I have fantasized. A lot. About all those things I was going to do without you, yet haven’t.

I have sat in my red rocking chair, staring at you, pining for you. How perfect you were. Everything in one place, in one big box. How that leather couch from Ikea was like a favorite sweater. How you transformed the living room into the dining room. How much more I enjoyed meals in your company. Even the cats adored you, got entranced with you. How I was so almighty with that control in my hands, cruising for the perfect flick of the moment, sometimes even toggling between two movies. How I felt superior to most other TV people, because I only watched movies. No junk shows, no commercials, no reality TV. Premium cable for premium people like myself.

Now I am empty and alone.

Now you must go.

I was so faithful, I didn’t even get one of those snazzy flat screens. It was you, only you.

Now you must go. Because the fact that you are physically here makes it difficult to find other ways to live. It’s like a bad lesbian breakup. The kind where you break up, yet continue to live with each other. There is no sex, only memories of when there was sex.

You have become a big gray useless blob. I can’t go forward in your presence. You must leave now.

The door is just to your left. I will roll you out, straight to the back of the building, and set you by the dumpster. I will dust your body, kiss you on the cheek, honor our time together, and turn my back. You will make someone else very happy.

Me, I’m going to stare at my bookshelves. Hernando Téllez, Laura Restrepo, Mario Mendoza, Mutis and Silvana Paternostro are calling out my name. I’m going to take them into my hands, get to know them, and make new friends.

Saturday, March 26, 2011

Looks like the political turmoil out of Arizona is giving us a break. Anti-immigrant bills got snuffed, thanks to the business community speaking up about how these paranoid delusions are bad for the economy. Certain politicians are furious. They may strike back soon.

But, meanwhile, this gives me a chance to get back to La Cultura, music, books . . . like Land of a Thousand Dances: Chicano Rock ‘n’ Roll from Southern California by David Reyes and Tom Waldman, two guys from my hometown of West Covina, California, who used to work at Tower Records. Tower is long gone. There’s now a gigantic, world-class shopping mall there, in the place that we used to call the Plaza.

This book is not just a SoCal nostalgia trip, but a well-researched (musicians, disk jockeys, and others were interviewed) documentation of Chicano Rock. It points out how integral this music was, not just to brown kids, but to Rock en General.

It starts back in the days of Lalo Guerrero and early Rhythm and Blues (the days when my dad said the police would pull you over if they heard that kind of music coming out of your car), to the beginnings of Rock in the Fifties, through the Sixties, into Punk, to Rap, and (in this new edition) to the present.

Quite a diverse array of musicians and musical styles are covered proving that this was rarely an isolated barrio phenomenon. Black music was always an influence as well as white rock. Rebellion against traditional Mexican music often turned into a rediscovery of that tradition, adding to the powerful mix, demonstrating that Chicano Rock is a mestizo thing.

Back in the early Eighties, when MTV dominated the national culture with the music videos it played, few nonwhite performers were featured. There was talk about musical apartheid, how black and white music were played on different radio stations, to different audiences, different worlds. Some pendejos suggested that only white guys could play proper rock and roll.

This what not the case where I grew up. KRLA and the other L.A. stations that appealed to the Chicano audience would go from the British Invasion to Motown without skipping a beat. I remember not knowing if a band was black or white until I saw them on television. And of course, in low-def black and white TV, the Beatles looked like they could be four guys from East L.A.

Chicano Rock provided connective tissue, linking cultures and communities, as well as providing a place to create new identities for those who lived between cultures. Land of a Thousand Dances shows all of this, and it makes me proud to be a Chicano.

Ernest Hogan’s story “Guerrilla Mural of a Siren’s Song” -- that he expanded into his novel Cortez on Jupiter -- will be reprinted in Alien Contactedited by Marty Halpern.

Friday, March 25, 2011

Writers are in a tizzy about e-books and self-publishing. You must have read or heard something about this recently, right? Search the name Barry Eisler and you soon will learn that this successful thriller writer turned down a $500,000 (yes, half-a-million dollars) offer from a traditional publisher for a new book because, as he put it, “I think I can do better in the long term on my own.” He means self-publishing using the e-book format. Read his interview here, with Joe Konrath, another “name” author now digging deep into the e-publishing world (you know, Kindle, Nook, and so on.) Reading that interview may make you weep, or at least take a deep breath. Eisler estimates he will make $30,000 this year on a short story (!); Konrath talks about a book he wrote twelve years ago, rejected by every major publisher, that has sold over 35,000 copies in only two years on Amazon.

How about these numbers --

"According to preliminary estimates from the Association of American Publishers, e-book sales from 16 reporting companies jumped 115.8%, to $69.9 million in January. No other trade segment posted a sales increase in the month. Sales of mass market paperbacks were terrible in January, down 30.9% from the nine reporting companies, falling to $39.0 million, $30 million below the sales of e-books. E-book sales also topped $49.1 million in adult hardcover sales reported by 17 publishers; hardcover sales fell 11.3% in January. Trade paperback sales fell 19.7% in the month but remained above e-book revenue at $83.6 million from 19 houses."

That paragraph is from a Publishers Weekly article entitled January E-book Sales Soar, Top Hardcover, Mass Market Paperback, which you can read here.

Meanwhile, writers’ groups are presenting seminars about the topic of e-books; new e-formatting and e-distribution services like Smashwordsarise and thrive on the dot.com landscape; and listservs and discussion groups debate the pros and cons of self-publishing through hyperspace with some familiar arguments heard before, such as the decline of quality because the self-published works are not vetted by editors; the relatively inexpensive price of an e-book hurts writers who are still published in the old-fashioned way; this is the end of bookstores; this is the end of traditional publishers and the publishing world. This is the end.

But it’s not, of course. The demise of the book has been predicted time and time again, only to not ever happen, and it won’t happen now. The golden age of paperbacks caused critics to moan about the decline in quality because of the massive hit on the market that the paperbacks had created, and many lamented that the traditional “hardback” (a code word for literary work) was dead. Didn’t happen then, won’t happen now. TV was supposed to destroy radio, movies, books, and brains. Only part of that turned out to be true. Bookstores have been dying for decades; publishers have languished for years; writers have complained for centuries -- and yet, we continue to write, publish, read and collect books. Oh, the world is changing, for sure, but we will always have books with actual pages, just like we still have music cassette tapes and players even though we live in a downloaded, i-tuney world.

It’s obvious that traditional publishers have to change, and some of them will wither away and die because they can’t keep up, but let’s have some faith in the multinational publishing corporations to understand and fix their bottom line. They will make it once again profitable for writers like Eisler and Konrath to return to the fold, simply because doing so is in the multinational’s best business interest.

But for now, the opportunity exists for all writers to seize the day. I know writers who have gathered or are in the process of collecting their already-published and paid-for stories or out-of-print books precisely for the purpose of publishing them in e-book format, yours truly included. Nothing better I would like than to have my stories available in one place at a very affordable price. I think new readers and old fans can appreciate such a collection, and those writers who have already done this are reporting success and satisfaction. Check out Steven Torres’ short story collections now available for your Kindle – he’s pleased with what is happening to his work and the reactions from readers.

There isn't a revolution in publishing coming, it's already happened. I think it's a good thing, but opinions vary. Meanwhile, I am digging my Nook (a gift) and using it - I've managed to read all of theCaptain Alatristeseries without extending my already over-extended book shelves, I have all the Mark Twainnovels at my fingertips, and even my own book, King of the Chicanos, (available in all e-book formats, I might add) sits on my Nook shelf ready to be read and shared, just like the copy that stands proud on my work table.

¡Viva la revolución!

___________________________

Melinda Palacio, the other Friday blogger here on La Bloga, reports the following good news:

Melinda will read with contributors to the poetry anthology New Poets of the American West including Teresa Dowell, Jeffrey Schult, Joyce E. Young, Lynne Thompson, Maurya Simon, William Archila, Carol V. Davis, Thea Gavin, Craig Cotter, and Rafael Jesús González.

March 26, Saturday 7:00 PMNEW POETS OF THE AMERICAN WEST

Many Voices Press proudly announces the Publication of New Poets of the American West: an anthology of poets from eleven Western states. (Please see attached flyers for cover art and additional information). This anthology contains 450 poems, including several written in the Spanish, Navajo, Salish, Assiniboine, and Dakota languages (with translations). The poets are Pulitzer Prize winners, MacArthur Fellows, newcomers, and street poets.

Collected here are poems about horse racing, mining, trash collecting, nuclear testing, firefighting, border crossings, buffalo hunting, surfing, logging, and sifting flour. In these pages you will visit flea markets, military bases, internment camps, reservations, funerals, weddings, rodeos, nursing homes, national parks, backyard barbecues, prisons, forests, meadows, rivers, and mountain tops. In your “mind’s eye,” you will meet a simple-minded girl who gets run over by a bull, two mothers watching a bear menacingly nosing toward unsuspecting children, and children who “have yet to be toilet trained out of their souls.” You will learn to “reach into the sacred womb, / grasp a placid hoof / and coax life toward this certain moment.” You’ll teach poetry to third graders, converse with hitchhikers, lament for an incarcerated brother “trying to fill the holes in his soul / with Camel cigarettes / and crude tattoos.” You will sit at the kitchen table where perhaps the world will end “while we are laughing and crying, eating of the last sweet bite.”

In the short time each of us has in this world, here’s your chance to experience life widely and to reflect on your experiences deeply. In New Poets of the American West, we hear from Native Americans and first-generation immigrants, from ranchlanders and megaopolites, from poet-teachers and street-poets, and more. In fact, the West is so big, and home to such diversity that the deeper one reads in this anthology, the more voices and world views one encounters, the more textures of thought, emotion, and language one discovers, the less we may find ourselves able to speak of a single, stable something called the American West. Rather, we may find ourselves living in (or reading into) not one West, but many.

Find a link here to the official publication flyer.___________________

Thursday, March 24, 2011

Late Breaking Announcement. La Bloga learned only today from John McDonald of the Claremont Universities Library about a Latino Student Union event, its 4th Annual Rockabilly Festival.

The event begins at 10 a.m. Saturday, March 26, 2011. Get there earlier than 5 p.m. when the music and car show call it a day.

Per the organizer's press release, five bands take the stage:

Don Juan y Los BlancosJonny Come LatelyGamblers MarkThe WiseguysOmar & The StringpoppersCAR EXHIBITIONVENDORS (Art, Apparel, Music, etc.)FOOD & MORE!!The 4th Annual Latino Student Union Rockabilly Festival is a celebration of an aesthetic movement typically called "Kustom Kulture." Kustom Kulture is a term encompassing artists who work with different mediums, including metal fabricators, tattooist, pinstrippers, photographers, filmmakers and performance artists. Kustom Kulture is often synonymous with "lowbrow art" and "pop surrealism." Popular Kustom Kulture artists include, Von Dutch (Kenneth Howard), Ed Roth, and Robert Williams. Yet, the most pioneering Kustom Kulture artists were the metal fabricators who radically transformed classic American cars into rolling sculpture. It is little wonder that one of Tom Wolfe's most memorable essays was devoted to these artists and appropriately titled, "The Kandy-Kolored Tangerine-Flake Streamline Baby." Today, Kustom Kulture is alive in many Latino barrios throughout the Southwest. With their fusion of Aztec-Catholic-Pachuco-Chicano-Greaser-Lowrider imagery and the styles and art of Ed Roth and Von Dutch; these artists are redefining Kustom Kulture in contemporary America. Come see barrio art and the artists on March 26th on "The Mounds" at Pitzer College.*This year's poster features Sonja Serventi, one of the few female car builders in the kustom kulture scene. She is the owner of a kustom car shop in El Monte and her creations have been featured in many car magazines. Sonja is a member of the Black Widows; the oldest and largest female kustom car club in California.Details: lsurockabillyfest@gmail.com .RSVP to this event on Facebook.

Khosi lives with her beloved grandmother Gogo, her little sister Zi, and her weekend mother in a matchbox house on the outskirts of Pietermaritzburg, South Africa. In that shantytown, it seems like somebody is dying all the time. Billboards everywhere warn of the disease of the day. Her Gogo goes to a traditional healer when there is trouble, but her mother, who works in another city and is wasting away before their eyes, refuses even to go to the doctor. She is afraid and Khosi doesn't know what it is that makes the blood come up from her choking lungs. Witchcraft? A curse? AIDS? Can Khosi take her to the doctor? Gogo asks. No, says Mama, Khosi must stay in school. Only education will save Khosi and Zi from the poverty and ignorance of the old Zulu ways.

School, though, is not bad. There is a boy her own age there, Little Man Ncobo, and she loves the color of his skin, so much darker than her own, and his blue-black lips, but he mocks her when a witch's curse, her mother's wasting sorrow, and a neighbor's accusations send her and Gogo scrambling off to the sangoma's hut in search of a healing potion.

In anticipation of J.L. Powers' newest YA novel, This Thing Called the Future due out this spring, Cinco Puntos Press is releasing the first five chapters now! Set in modern-day South Africa, the story follows Khosi, a 14-year-old girl faced with a slew of extraordinary circumstances: from a supernatural stalking to losing a loved one to AIDS.

J.L. Powers holds an MA in African history from State University of New York-Albany and Stanford University. She won a Fulbright-Hays grant to study Zulu in South Africa, and served as a visiting scholar in Stanford's African Studies Department. This is her second novel for young adults.

Kids love tall tales. Tales that stretch the truth almost as tall as Joe Hayes himself. Joe was delighted when kids laughed and hooted about his story about The Gum Chewing Rattler. They kept asking him, was that story really true?

Now Joe has written a new story about his early years in Arizona.

Joe, the kid, was a creature of habit. If he decided he liked to do something, he would do it over and over again. Like wear the same t-shirt until it nearly fell apart or use the same pencil until he’d sharpened it down to a nub. He also had a pair of black and white high-top sneakers that he loved to wear. He wore them every day.

“Get rid of those shoes,” his mother told him one morning. “They smell terrible!”

Did Joe listen? Of course not. That is, not until he met one lovelorn lady skunk, enamored with the one thing that smelled worse than her!

Joe Hayes is one of America’s premier storytellers—a nationally recognized teller of tales—true and tall—from the Hispanic, Native American and Anglo cultures of the American Southwest.

Antonio Castro Lopez (L.) was born in Zacatecas, Mexico and has lived in the Juarez-El Paso area for most of his life. He has illustrated dozens of childrens’ books including Barry, the Bravest Saint Bernard (Random House), Pajaro Verde, The Treasure on Gold Street, The Day It Snowed Tortillas, and most recently The Gum-Chewing Rattler (Cinco Puntos Press).

A wealthy landowner bets the farm that trusted employee Juan Verdades cannot tell a lie. The daughter of the man who stands to win the bet tricks Juan into making a foolish mistake. Juan wonders if he can admit it.

Don Ignacio is a wealthy landowner whose prized possession is an apple tree that produces the most delicious fruit around. He trusts only one man to care for this tree—his ranch foreman Juan Verdades. Don Ignacio is also a proud man and he lets his pride carry him into a dangerous bet! He bets a neighboring rancher his ranch that Juan Verdades cannot tell a lie. His opponent is determined to win the bet, using guile and the help of his beautiful daughter to trick Juan Verdades into stealing all of the fruit from the prized apple tree. Will Juan Verdades be able to tell the truth about what he has done? The ranch depends on it.

Originally published in 2001, this paperback edition of Joe Hayes’ classic story features the bilingual style common to his most popular books. Joe’s bilingual Spanish-English tellings and books have earned him a distinctive place among America’s storytellers. He lives in Santa Fe and travels extensively throughout the United States telling his stories.

Joseph Daniel Fiedler was born and raised in the Appalachian hill country of western Pennsylvania. He attended the Ivy School of Professional Art and Carnegie Mellon University. He is the recipient of a silver medal from the Society of Illustrators for book illustration.